This is Literally the End
by ZombieEinstein2
Summary: I mean yeah, 94% of the population is walking around eating brains but when was it ever really safe to go outside before?


**Prologue**

The Beginning of the End

* * *

So there are three things that you should know. Number one: I am, by far, the most amazing and important person you will ever meet. You could pretty much ask anyone on earth and they would, I'm sure, tell you the exact same thing. Now I know you're thinking that I must either be downright narcissistic or have an over-inflated sense of self but the truth of the matter is, I'm awesome. It will, unfortunately, go downhill for you in the whole "meeting incredible people" category from now on.

Now that that's out of the way, I can get on with number two; what you are currently reading is 100% true. Everything contained within this manuscript is an unaltered account of what actually happened to me. You might find it unbelievable or impossible but it's not. I've learned that very few things are impossible these days. I don't know who you are and I don't know what the world is like while you're reading this but I do hope that this means something to you, because it's all I have to give. I guess the scariest part in all of this is that I'm really just talking to myself right now; that nobody will ever read this. If that's the case, then I freely confess to having pulled down Suzie Pepper's pants at the grade two Christmas concert. If someone _is _reading this, please disregard my previous sentence.

Well, I guess that brings us to number three: the world is overrun by zombies. Okay, I probably should have led with that, but it's not like anything has really changed. The few people that are around are still horrible to one another, what's left of the government is still useless and the price of gas is still ridiculous. I mean yeah, 94% of the population is walking around eating brains but when was it ever really safe to go outside before? I can tell you, there are a lot less car accidents then there used to be. Then again there is also a lot more shovel to the face deaths, but you win some you lose some.

In most fictional zombie stories, it takes a couple of months before a real infestation. In the real world, it took three days. The first major problem we had was mosquitos. A mosquito would bite someone with Z Flu and then transmit the contagion to a healthy host body. Because the disease worked so rapidly, within three or four hours most of the southeast had already been turned. In the early days you survived because you were lucky. It didn't matter if you were rich or poor, black or white, smart or stupid; Z flu didn't discriminate. You had to be that one in a million who didn't get bitten. After Day Two, when it had reached as far north as Maryland, the government deployed what we now call M-Gas. It was designed to completely eradicate mosquitos. It did the job but had some nasty side effects. Because the gas was so toxic, it left large boils and rashes on the surface of the skin, which was then confused for Z Flu. About two million healthy people were killed because of mistaken identity on Day Two alone.

So yes, my world may seem to be a violent messed up place, but that's not what my story is about. Sure, there are some cruel and brutal things I've had to do, but this story is actually about love; love and loss and friendship and all those other clichéd abstract ideas about what it's like to be a human. I can't promise you that my story is a happy one (because where would the fun be in that?) but I can promise to make you feel something. Whether that is disgust or joy or sadness has yet to be determined.

Alright, I'm stalling now. I think it's mainly because I'm not sure where to start. I guess the beginning so, here goes…

I was born in Reno, Nevada on February 26th, 1990. Actually, that's a horrible place to start. Nobody really cares about the early years. Just know that I was an adorable child who grew into an awkward pre-teen and then magnificently butterflied into a young adult. I'm going to skip ahead to when I was 23; the day Patient Zero hit the newsstands. I was living in New York with my then roommate Joe, who basically never spoke and could have been going out at night and butchering small children for all I knew about him. He didn't mind my odd hours and I didn't mind the ten pounds of hair gel in the bathroom he used to keep his dreads just right, so really it wasn't a horrible arrangement. I worked as a part time waitress at a diner called Goolsby's while simultaneously losing all hope of ever becoming a successful actress. Since arriving in New York five months prior, I had only managed to book a small time commercial for hemorrhoid cream. It definitely wasn't how I had envisioned my life going.

When the news of patient zero broke, I was at home eating Chef Boyardee and screaming at my agent.

"Santana, I'm sorry, but there just isn't any work right now."

"Don't give me that bull, Terri. My co-worker Kelly just got a role on the new Die Hard movie and she has a baby hand. A freaky little baby hand that she makes me shake every time I see her. If her and her creepy fetus digits can get work, why can't I?" I screamed, spitting chunks of ravioli onto the receiver.

"A baby hand? I hope it's not contagious. Oh Jesus, I just remembered shaking your hand at that disgusting diner on 5th where the food gave me diarrhea. Santana, what if you gave me the baby hand gene? Oh my God, Kendra! Kendra come here! Does my hand look any smaller than normal?" Terri yelled to someone else on her side of the line.

"You know what? I hope you do wake up tomorrow morning with gross little infant fingers because you are the worst agent ever! I still have 8 boxes of hemorrhoid cream stashed in my garage and a bruise the size of a small African country on my ass from having been chased by that psychotic Bichon Frisé in Cypress Hills on my last audition," I said, pausing for effect. Terri of course had already hung up, no doubt running off to the doctor in search of a baby hand cure. The irony of the situation is that Terri was one of the first in Los Angeles to get bitten. From what I heard from her husband Will, she was mauled by a homeless man when she had stopped to shake quarters at him.

After a couple of minutes of spewing expletives at Terri's obvious incompetence, I sat down on the couch for a night of sleazy reality television. Joe was apparently off at his Christian book club (or drowning cats at the local sewage treatment facility) when I first heard about Patient Zero. Of course, back then, he was known only as Blaine Anderson. By some stroke of luck, CNN was the first channel I passed on my way to watching some kooky Kardashian hijinks.

"…It was messed up, you know? We tear gassed him first, and I've seen some big guys go down with that [beep]. This guy just kept coming. He started lashing out at the other officers. [beep] even bit Officer Tanaka. Then Sergeant Banks tased him and we shot a couple beanbag rounds at him, but nothing. Finally we were ordered to take the kill shot. We must have peppered that guy with a good round each. At first he went down but we could tell the guy wasn't dead. After a couple minutes he started dragging himself towards…"

That's when I changed the channel. Had I watched another five minutes, I could have seen newly re-animated Officer Tanaka attacking reporters and ripping the tail off of a pit bull. Instead, I watched Kim Kardashian taking pictures of herself while bringing her sister to jail (for the fifth time). The rest of the night was spent watching Honey Boo Boo and eating chocolates my ex boyfriend John had bought me after he cheated on me with some goth chick at a Nickelback concert. Granted, we were never really serious because a) he had a disgusting ponytail, which I spent many a night dreaming about chopping off and b) I could never fully give myself to a man who liked Nickelback un-ironically.

It was around 11:30 at night when the knocking started. I was wrapped up like a burrito in my favorite comforter, minutes away from blissful sleep, when I heard someone frantically pounding on my front door. I tried rolling over and ignoring it, because no one was worth giving up heavenly burrito comfort. When the knocking continued, I realized it couldn't be Joe, since he had a key. I am, undoubtedly, a person with a relatively short fuse, so I untangled myself from the covers and quietly made my way to the door. After several uncomfortable minutes, the knocking stopped. With a sigh of relief, I began to make my way back to my bedroom when, naturally, I tripped on the corner of my coffee table. I held my breath, hoping that my lack of grace had not made my presence known.

"I knew you were in there!" came a woman's voice on the other side.

Shit.

"I want you to know that I am an expert in martial arts and can kill a man with one swift punch to the jugular!" I screamed at my unknown assailant. Obviously I was lying, since the one kickboxing class I had taken had ended with me having a pulled groin after attempting to kick some fat lady in stretch pants. The most humiliating part was having her help me back to my apartment. Of course my current attacker didn't need to know this.

"Santana, it's Sugar. Let me in! I'm wearing a $5,000 coat and your cross-eyed neighbor is staring at me with only one of his eyes!" came a forced whisper.

"No! You know I'm mad at you for setting me up with that greasy haired drummer from your band. We spent the whole night in his parent's basement playing Dungeons and Dragons and at the end of the date he stole my wallet." I whispered back through the door.

Sugar's band was called Sweet Harmony and, because she's my friend, I can tell you that most people would rather listen to a donkey getting a prostate exam than listen to even five seconds of them play something. I use the term "play" loosely, since Sugar basically just screeched into the microphone while the rest of her bandmates either lazily plucked at random guitar strings or all but destroyed a perfectly good drum set.

"I came all the way down to Povertyville to talk to you. Isn't that punishment enough?" She almost pleaded.

Because Sugar was, admittedly, the only friend I had managed to make since moving to New York, I let her in. Her father was also a self-made millionaire and I suspect had ties with the mob, so that helped my decision too.

"Pack your bags, we're moving to Canada!" she said, rushing through the door and grabbing my t-shirt dramatically.

"What are you talking about?" I said, batting her hands away. "The only thing Canada has is beavers and the metric system."

"They also have universal health care and reinforced arteries from years of maple syrup drinking. Oh yah, and they don't have zombies!" she yelled, making her way into my bedroom, only to unceremoniously begin emptying my drawers of clothing.

"Jesus, what'd you do, mix shrooms into your coffee this morning?" I asked, not making any attempt to stop her. I knew better than to piss off a hallucinating nut job.

"You only make that mistake once," she said as she began stuffing my clothes into a small leather suitcase. "Haven't you been watching the news?"

"I resent your implication that I don't watch the news! I was watching CNN two hours ago!" I yelled, snatching a pink bra from her grip.

"Well then you know that Florida is overrun and that it's moving north. We have to leave now, Santana. I'm way too talented and good looking to become zombie chow!"

"You're crazy. Like I knew you were crazy before, especially after you dished out five grand on that hideous gorilla-fur coat, but now I know for sure. You've lost it."

Looking back, I think that was the moment I realized how serious she was; the moment when she stomped to my bedside table and grabbed the television remote instead of defending her new coat.

Three hours later I was on the road to Montreal.


End file.
